She smiles politely. “Very.”
“Ava has quite the impressive client list,” Marlowe says, sensing her guest is becoming too comfortable. “She’s hosted parties at some of the most fabulous places in the city.”
“For some of the most fabulous people,” Constance adds. “Even celebrities.”
“Do tell,” Damien says.
“I started hosting parties for some of the other wives on the baseball team. Birthdays and engagement parties and baby showers. Things like that. Through word of mouth, my name got out there more and more.”
“Tell him the rest of the story,” Preston cuts in. “About how you got started.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Ava says, reaching for her wineglass.
Preston puts his elbows on the table, leans in like a conspirator.
“Right around the time Ava started her business, there was another girl trying to run the same thing. I hired a guy to look into the other woman’s business and steal some of her ideas.”
Ava shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “That’s not exactly what happened.”
“Sure, it is. My guy came back with all the details about her parties, and gave you the upper hand.”
“I’d already organized everything for my upcoming events by that point.” She looks at Damien, failing to appear unbothered. “My clients were pleased with what I’d done. It was exactly what they’d asked for.”
“Knowing what the competition was planning didn’t hurt,” Preston says, finishing his drink, unaware of how his words slash through his wife’s sense of self-worth. I feel the tone of the night turning.
Ava and Preston are the eternal compass of our group, the mother and father of our little makeshift family. When things are good, it’s great. When they’re not, you can slice the tension with a knife. Preston’s ignorance is part of his dopey charm, but to Ava, it’s absolutely infuriating.
Ava, struggling to keep her composure, stands. “Excuse me.”
She covers her plate with her napkin and exits.
11
It’s my favorite sceneinThe Birds.A murder of crows assembles along the metal beams of a schoolhouse jungle gym. Young students rush from the building only to be swarmed by the menacing creatures, their oily feathers flapping in a demonic rhythm. Beaks peck at braids and cheeks and ears, drawing blood and eliciting screams that rival the crows’ maniacal cawing, forcing Tippi Hedren and two schoolgirls to seek sanctuary inside her car. The scene exudes terror in Technicolor. I’m transfixed.
It’s a welcome distraction from the very real tensions unfolding.
Preston dunks another chunk of lamb into a puddle of mint jelly, oblivious to the impact his words have on his wife. I don’t think it’s intentional. Damien’s questions simply flared Preston’s deep-rooted insecurities, and the only way he can recapture some sense of control is to remind everyone, especially Ava, that she would be nowhere without him.
Constance reaches for her mocktail, searching for a topic to help ease the tension. “So, how long have you and Damien been seeing each other?”
Marlowe blushes, darting eyes at him across the table. “Only a few weeks.”
“How did you meet?” I ask.
“At Marlowe’s restaurant,” Damien answers.
“He came in one night and complained about his steak,” Marlowe says, signaling a chorus of laughter.
“Really?” Preston says.
“I didn’t complain,” Damien protests. “I’m very picky about my meat. I only thought it was a little undercooked.”
“He’s one of those guys that orders his steak well done,” Marlowe says, tucking a fallen strand of hair into her flower crown. “Burns all the flavor away.”
“My waitress did me the horror of expressing my discontent to the chef,” he says, leaning back in his chair to get a better look at Marlowe. “Next thing I know, this beautiful woman with a head full of curls is standing at my table telling me how I should eat my food.”
“And was I right?” Marlowe smiles.
